Ianto's Secret Diary
by UnicornJones
Summary: He really does write down everything... Chapter 3: Gwen gets caught red-handed. Plus, romance is interrupted by an unexpected and decidedly unwelcome guest.
1. Monday, Tuesday

I own nothing.

* * *

Monday

Today started out poorly—wardrobe crisis.

Not that I couldn't find something to wear—as I have described before, I lay out my clothes the night before, so as to make sure they are properly pressed, the socks match, etc.

Unfortunately, this morning I got rather careless as I was brushing my teeth, and a spot of toothpaste landed on my tie. The damage was irreparable except by complete wash cycle. Having no time for that, and no acceptable substitute that would coordinate with my chartreuse shirt, I was forced to change both my shirt and my tie and go with maroon instead.

As usual, I was the first to arrive at work—except for Jack, obviously. He was still in bed, so I popped down for a quick shag, then went to make coffee.

Owen showed up and, in typical Owen fashion (i.e., no tact whatsoever), wondered aloud why it always smelled like sex inside the Hub.

Jack, in typical Jack fashion (i.e., "Look at me! I'm so horny, I'll shag anything that moves!"), told Owen not to be shy—if he wanted in on the action, he just had to say so.

Really, Jack? Owen? Sure, he's got spunk, but as far as looks go…

He always reminded me of a frog. Or a newt. I would probably rather screw an actual frog.

…Scratch that.

Anyway, then Gwen showed up and, in typical Gwen fashion (i.e., completely obvious and incredibly annoying), started flirting like mad with jack. Oh, if that chubby hubby of hers could see the way she fawns over him…

Perhaps I'll send Rhys some CC-TV footage. That would certainly cause a stir.

Not that I'm jealous or anything (poor gap-toothed Gwen doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell with Jack, although she certainly is more than a match for Owen), I just get bored. Making coffee isn't exactly demanding on my time and energy. I mean, there's always Jack and his insatiable sexual appetite, but he's always busy saving the future and whatnot and I'm…the butler.

I'm pathetic, aren't I?

So then Tosh showed up and, in typical Tosh fashion (i.e., even more pathetic than I am), flirted uselessly with the oblivious Owen. I have no idea what she sees in him, but we've been over that already.

The morning was uneventful, for once. Jack was feeling frisky this afternoon, so he sent the rest of the team on a wild weevil chase so he and I could have another shag. We did the UNIT scenario again (God bless Martha Jones), after a slight debate over who got to be the officer. Jack wanted to do it (mostly because he wanted to wear the cap), but I pointed out that he is always in charge, so wouldn't even really be role playing.

Jack agreed, and conceded that I probably looked better in the cap anyway.

Question for further investigation: Are all immortals good in bed? My own experience would seem to indicate yes—then again, my own experience is slightly limited.

Anyway, the wild weevil chase turned out to be a real weevil chase. Tosh came back with a nasty gash on her arm—I can only imagine how much she drooled over Owen as he patched her up.

Obviously, I didn't stick around to watch.

Gwen stormed into Jacks office to give him her daily "You've forgotten what it means to be human" speech and scolded him for recklessly putting the team in danger. ("You treat us like we're all immortal! Well, news flash, Jack, we're not!" Instant classic.)

Jack did a remarkably good job of keeping a straight face as he admitted that she was right, which always seems to satisfy her.

Tonight: Reorganize closet.

To be determined: Is it more efficient to sort by color or by clothing type? Perhaps both? Further thought required.

Side note: Other team members expressing curiosity about my diary. (Especially Gwen, who probably is just dying to know what Jack is like in bed.)

Possible options for preventing snooping:

1.) Start writing in code and/or foreign language. Drawbacks include reliance on decoding tool (easily stolen) and/or memory.

2.) Come up with a more secure hiding place than inside my desk drawer. Although perhaps whoever is searching for it will naturally assume I've hidden it in a very clever place and won't even bother checking the obvious spot.

3.) Make a decoy diary that looks just like the real one, write bogus entries, and keep it in plain view.

Tomorrow: Make pro/con list (possibly Venn diagram) for Operation Secret Diary. Determine which option and/or combination of options is most viable.

Also, avoid Jack, who always seems to know when I'm up to something.

* * *

_Mardi_

_Alors, j'ai décidé d'écrire en français. Je pense que les autres ne savlent pas de français, mais je ne suis pas sûr. Aussi, mon français n'est pas très bien. C'est difficile, mais nécessaire. _

_Ce matin, je me suis réveillé à 6h, comme d'habitude. Et puis, je__—_

Okay, so my French is a little rusty.

Actually, I'm surprised I even remember that much—the only time I studied it was for two weeks or so during Torchwood training.

So Operation Secret Diary is ongoing. Scratch option one off the list.

Today is turning out to be rather eventful, actually. A couple of Americans popped through the rift—apparently they originally came from the 1960s, so that's fun. From their perspective, the entire trip has been the best high ever.

Anyway, they were a couple of teenage girls, so naturally Gwen adopted them like stray puppies. Owen wouldn't even stay in the same room with them, saying something to the effect of having been down that road before, and not wanting to do it again. Tosh is working like mad to try to figure out how to send them back, and Jack did his best to hide his disappointment about the lack of a strapping male hippie companion. He succeeded pretty admirably, too, given the circumstances.

I, meanwhile, got to be in charge of the "Welcome to the 21st century!" shopping spree, which is always a treat.

And yes, that was sarcasm—I realize it doesn't always translate well in writing, but I can't help but use it (defense mechanism. I know.), so I'll try to warn you when I do.

Random trivia: Apparently, English is the only language in which sarcasm exists. Which, from a certain perspective, makes sense—why would you say one thing when you mean the exact opposite? On the other hand, without sarcasm the world would be so…literal…

Anyway, I'm going off on tangents now, so I'd better quit. Plus I hear some commotion out in the other room, so I'd better go see what's—

* * *

Sooo... yeah. If you review, you might get to find out what happens next...

Love,

C.


	2. Wednesday

Wednesday

Sorry about yesterday—I got interrupted by a Torchwood crisis, as usual. Gwen burst into the Hub in a panic, babbling incoherently and pacing about like a maniac until we were able to explain that unless she calmed down, we would have no idea what she was saying.

That didn't work so Owen gave her a mild sedative, which was such a large improvement over her normal personality that I am considering slipping it into her morning coffee from now on.

Anyway, it was Jack who finally asked the right question, which was, "Where are the hippies?" Gwen managed to explain that they weren't hippies at all, but actually man-eating, shape-shifting aliens disguised as hippies.

Go figure, eh?

Apparently, Gwen and Rhys were able to fend them off, but not before one of them took a chunk out of Rhys' ear. (I daresay that would be thee most appetizing part of him.)

Fortunately Tosh had already figured out how to get the hippies/aliens back through the rift and developed some sort of ray gun device with which to accomplish this feat, so then it was just a matter of finding them. (Jack: "If I were a man-eating, shape-shifting alien, where would I go to party?" Owen: "A strip club?" Jack: "You always say strip club!" Owen: "Yeah, 'cause I'm usually right.")

Tosh managed to track the aliens to a general area using residual rift energy or something like that, despite the fact that Gwen, hell-bent on revenge for Rhys' ear, was breathing down her neck the entire time.

So after Tosh showed Jack how to use the ray gun rift transporter thingy (to do: come up with clever rhyming name for device), we took off in the Torchwood Tank.

I called shotgun, as usual. Tosh stayed at the Hub because she's the only one who knows anything about how to work the computers, and also she mostly just gets in the way in the field.

Anyway, the hippies/aliens turned up not at a strip club, but at a brothel (Owen: "Close enough."), which we figured out fairly easily because of all the mostly naked girls and fat old men running out of the building screaming.

One of the girls looked like something had taken a fairly good-sized bite out of her upper thigh—naturally, Owen decided the injury was life-threatening and needed immediate medical attention.

This left Gwen and I to cover Jack while he went in to investigate, and I was once again grateful—as I am on an almost daily basis—for his inability to die.

I know _I_ wouldn't go into a potentially deadly situation with only me and Gwen for protection.

So we found the aliens, who turned out to be relatively dense, slow moving, and easily dispatched with the ray gun thingy. (Working title: "rift pistol," which does have a nice assonance but isn't quite as catchy as it could be.)

Upon reflection, I don't really understand how those aliens got the best of Gwen and Rhys in the first place.

To do: Suggest to Jack a mandatory field training session for all Torchwood personnel—and significant others. Jack should like the idea—that man loves telling people what to do almost as much as he loves suspenders.

Anyway, the rift pistol seemed to work perfectly; unfortunately, we have no way of knowing whether we sent the aliens back to their original time and place, or just set them loose to terrorize someone else.

Hmm, perhaps we should have tested that thing before using it on killer aliens.

Oh well. I suppose it's another good lesson for the Torchwood Employee Handbook I'm working on. (Completed chapters include, "How to Catch a Pterodactyl," "What to do if Your Girlfriend Turns Into a Cyborg," and "Don't Worry, He's Not Really Dead.")

Once we got that sorted, everyone finally left for the night. Including me—I was exhausted and more than a little upset about having to postpone my closet organizing project, so I ignored Jack's innuendo and snuck out while he was listening to Gwen's weekly "Why do I do this job?" soul-searching session: "I trusted those girls, Jack. I opened my home to them, and they tried to rip out my jugular. At the end of the day I have to ask myself, is it really worth it?" (The answer is always yes—I've stopped getting my hopes up that she'll quit and Jack will replace her with someone who has less distracting teeth.)

But then this morning I felt slightly guilty for leaving, so I tried to make it up to Jack by giving him the early bird special—i.e., breakfast in bed.

It worked, of course—Jack has always been powerless in the face of my boyish charm.

Anyway, I'd better run. Gwen just stormed into the Hub looking pissed, and I wouldn't want to miss anything good.

* * *

(Still) Wednesday

Gwen's hissy fit turned out to be a false alarm—kind of. Apparently, Rhys' ear wound wouldn't stop bleeding, so she brought him along, which is always fun. He did look a little pale, although it was difficult to tell whether that was because of his injury or because of Gwen's incessant flirting with Jack. (Honestly, that girl has no shame.)

Owen took a look at Rhys' ear and determined that the man-eating, shape-shifting aliens' bite must be preventing the wound from healing. At which point Gwen demanded that Owen figure out how to fix it, frustrating both Owen ("Thank you for that extremely helpful suggestion, Gwen. I had no idea what to do next—it's not like I'm a doctor or anything.") and Rhys. ("I'm not a child, Gwen! You don't have to protect me.")

This triggered the usual lovers' spat between Gwen and Rhys, which made Owen extremely uncomfortable and was my cue to leave the room.

The remainder of the day was fairly uneventful, fortunately. I had a lot of time to mull over Operation Secret Diary—I think I have come up with an effective plan, although I won't write it here because I do have a strong suspicion that someone is snooping.

Tonight: Closet organization(Finally). Dinner with Jack. Dabbling to follow. Details tomorrow.

* * *

Hi gang,

Thanks for the reviews, and for keeping me honest. If you keep reviewing, I'll keep writing...

You know, if you want me to.

Love,

C.


	3. Thursday

_Dear Gwen,_

_It has recently come to my attention that you seem to have made a habit out of reading my diary (Don't try to deny it; I have proof). I would be very appreciative if you would stop. I realize that I am an extremely fascinating person, but it really is quite an invasion of privacy. _

_If you insist on continuing, I will be forced to release via the internet the CC-TV footage when you came to the Hub in tears after getting into an argument with Rhys and poured out your soul to Jack. And then slept with him. I will also be sending a copy to Rhys personally, to make sure it gets into the proper hands. _

_If it helps, try to think of this not as blackmail, but rather as an incentive to stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong._

_Love, _

_Ianto_

* * *

Thursday

It's times like this when I wish I kept a blog instead of a diary so that I could post the video footage of Gwen attempting to make up with me—it was priceless. By "priceless," of course, I mean "excruciatingly uncomfortable and awkward for her, and highly entertaining and amusing for me."

It was slightly difficult for me to pretend I was extremely hurt and upset so that she would take me seriously, especially since Jack (who was in on the whole thing, naturally) was watching. At one point I almost lost control, but I managed to stifle my laughter for the most part, or else turn it into fits of sobbing:

"Look, Ianto, I'm really sorry about what I did."

"Are you? Are you _really_?"

"Yes! I promise I'll never do it again."

"I don't think that's sufficient."

"Well, what would be?"

"Hmm… I think you have to cross your heart."

"Cross my heart?"

"Hope to die."

"Hope to die?"

"Stick a needle in your eye."

"That seems a little—"

"Say it."

"Stick a needle in my eye."

"Perfect. Now pinkie-swear."

And so on. I even got her to promise to do my laundry for a month.

Come to think of it, though, I'm not sure I trust her with my laundry. Maybe I'll try to get her to do Jack's instead. That'll be a fun one to explain to Rhys. And it will definitely teach her not to snoop around in people's private business.

Speaking of private business (now that I've gotten rid of all the snoopers): Last night. Jack. Dinner. Italian. Wine. Conversation. Uneventful.

Ground rules: No talking about work, although we do make an exception for stories about what ridiculous things Gwen has said and/or done recently. Also off-limits: politics, religion, and sports. Speaking from experience, those conversations never end well.

Anyway, I would offer a full account of the conversation, but I was so distracted by how dapper Jack looked (he left the braces at home, thank God, and actually wore a coat and tie) that I don't really remember.

Change of venue—back to my place, for once. More wine. Music, provided by Jack, who still won't tell me when he had the time to learn to play piano. Something classical—they all sound the same to me. (I only got the piano for decoration) It was lovely, though, with the candlelight and all that, at least until my 95-year-old neighbor started banging on the wall and yelling about the fact that it was almost midnight and some of us are trying to sleep.

Crazy old woman. She has twenty-five cats, I swear. Or at least that's what it smells like from the hallway.

But anyway.

We eventually made it to the bedroom and Jack got out the fuzzy handcuffs, which are always a good time. Both of us were thoroughly exhausted and drifting off to sleep when Jack's phone started ringing. I begged him not to answer it ("It's Gwen, right?" "No, Tosh," "Shit. That means it might actually be important."), but of course the rift never sleeps, and that's when I realized it was going to be a long night.

* * *

Tosh wouldn't say exactly what the problem was, she just insisted that Jack come to the Hub immediately. Our arrival generated only mild interest (i.e., Gwen: "What have you two been up to, then?" "Oh, shut up Gwen—I don't ask about your love life, do I?" Ugh, I don't even want to know…), which quickly dissipated when Tosh revealed what was going on.

"Right, um, sorry to make you all come down here at, uh three o'clock in the morning, but I was monitoring some rift activity and then, well—"

Tosh's stammering speech was cut short, though as the conference room doors burst open and Captain John Hart burst into the room.

"Hiya, gang. Did you miss me?"

* * *

So, took a little longer than expected, and was a little shorter than expected. (I cut out 500+ words of smut--you're welcome.)

I like reviews. Thanks to everyone who has, and everyone who will. *hint, hint*

Love,

C.


End file.
